New Year
by Kichigai Hi
Summary: Sometimes, alcohol has a way of making the most unquantifiable things so clear. Implied Sherlock/John


Ah this is just some very light, holiday-related fluff. Hope you enjoy, and happy New Year!

* * *

'Careful with the blend, Sherlock, it can take you by surprise.'

Lestrade had muttered these words as Sherlock had downed his fifth glass of said wine. The younger man had merely rolled his eyes, trying to bite back some remark about how he could easily take five hits of cocaine so some silly alcohol was not going to do him in. Fortunately, he'd decided to forgo that particular reference to his past. He opted for a defiant swig of John's scotch - to the latter's annoyance.

That had probably been an hour ago. Gradually, the room became dimmer, the sounds slightly less distinguishable, the movement slower. Sherlock directed his gaze towards the faces around the table and looked. Simply looked. He tried to isolate bits and pieces of their appearance and go through his spiel of deductions but found that he couldn't. All he saw was the white of Lestrade's grin directed at a red and glowing Molly; the blonde waitress rushing by in a blur of white and black; John holding a mug of the house ale to his lips as Stamford spewed out another story from their years apart. He couldn't find judgments. Just details. That blew him away.

Apparently Lestrade had been right about the wine.

And as much as he thought he would despise being in this state of lacking control, he couldn't help but feel... free.

He poured himself another glass.

...

John Watson was very much enjoying himself this evening. Having had the foresight to make Sherlock promise not to insult anyone, John was pleased to note the outing was going without a hitch. The unrestricted drinking among the guests had revealed them to be quite entertaining drunks which, John thought, was more than anyone could ask for in a group of friends. A few rounds of ale had made Mike's ramblings infinitely more amusing and John found that he was starting to not care about a thing in the world. He turned his head to Sherlock whose eyes held an unusual softness as they stared at nothing and everything at the same time. John wasn't sure that description was logical but Sherlock had never made any sense anyway. Well, his own lack of sobriety might have had something to do with it too. Sherlock turned and met John's gaze but said nothing. His pupils were dark and glinted with the off-white Christmas lights hanging above them.

A bell rang.

New Year's wishes echoed around the room. Flutes of champagne had magically appeared on their table. Everyone raised a glass toasting to happiness and love and all those things people tended to forget except on holidays such as this. John's glass connected with Sherlock's and they looked at each other again. Sherlock's mouth was graced with a tiny smile that actually met his eyes.

'Happy New Year, John.'

'Happy New Year, Sherlock.'

John found a smile taking over his own face. It didn't leave for the rest of the night.

...

The London air was refreshingly crisp (and surprisingly dry) when all parties went their separate ways a few hours later. John had felt a not-entirely-sober impulse to walk back to the flat instead of calling a cab and Sherlock had silently complied. Silence was not a common trait one found in a Sherlock Holmes, John noted, especially when not on a case.

'Wait.'

Sherlock turned to look at his flatmate.

'This... this is the street where we started chasing after that serial killer cabbie. You know, the awful one that I shot.'

'It is.' Sherlock was somewhat surprised. Partly because John had noticed but mostly because Sherlock hadn't. The world had begun to look increasingly unreal especially since leaving the restaurant.

'You know,' John's eyebrow rose and his lips curled into a cheeky, drunken smirk. 'I bet I could retrace our steps all the way back to our flat without any help from,' he prodded a finger into the chest of Sherlock's coat, 'you.' John pulled away and nodded as if agreeing with himself.  
Sherlock mulled this over in his languid mind and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. He nodded and before he knew it, John took off.

Their journey felt incredibly fast but it was probably more the alcohol making perception rather slow. No matter worth dwelling on. Sherlock was having a hard enough time keeping up with the surprisingly agile John who was dodging angry drivers and jumping fences as if his life depended on it. Sherlock absently thought it might be a good idea to have John drunk for all of their chases. Finally, Sherlock turned a corner and halted. He didn't see John anywhere. Turning slowly, he spotted a bench at the edge of a park with a head sticking out from the top of it. Sherlock walked over and plopped down slumping against the shoulder he knew was John's.

'This is... nowhere near the route we took,' Sherlock gasped out, breaths crystallizing in the cold.

John tried to shrug but one shoulder was lodged beneath that of his taller companion. 'At least I found a bench.'

'True.' That did indeed sound like a valid accomplishment.

'Ow.' John wedged his arm out from under Sherlock and let it drop around the other man. Sherlock took the opportunity to bring his legs up onto the bench and lean more into John.

'You know, John?' Sherlock's voice rang deep and mildly slurred. 'If people weren't already talking... this might give them grounds to start.'

John closed his eyes and let his head roll into a wonderfully comfortable position atop Sherlock's mop of curls. 'Then let them talk.' There was quiet for a time. Every so often, the voices of a couple or a partied-out group of university kids could be heard behind them, blending into the sounds of rustling leaves and distant cars. Minutes stretched into who knew how long. Slowly, John became more aware of his senses as the calming drug seeped away; the cold began to bite but the heavy warmth against him made moving out of the question for the moment; the first inklings of dawn sifted through his half-open lids. Fatigue abated the slightest bit. He pondered how the heartbeat of the man next to him had slowed since their run but had never quite returned to normal. He wasn't sure his had either.

'You know, Sherlock... I never really know what to make of us.'

Calm agreement: 'No.'

John was only mildly taken aback that Sherlock almost seemed to expect that statement. It wasn't as if the topic had ever been more than teasingly danced around. Then again, they had also never found themselves this drunk together. 'Do you think we'll ever figure it out?'

'The thrill of the chase, John.'

John laughed a bit. 'Thrill of the chase indeed.' He let out a relaxed sigh. Even if those few words had barely solved anything, their utterance somehow made him feel... content.

Another indeterminate length of time passed.

'Mrs Hudson will probably be worried sick about us by now.'

'Mm.' But Sherlock made no effort to budge.

'Well I, for one, would like to reach a comfortable horizontal surface before the inevitable hangover kicks in.' Sherlock grudgingly straightened and allowed John to stand up and stretch. The former promptly fell over into the newly-emptied space. 'Oh, no, you don't.' John pulled on Sherlock's torso and slipped an arm under his to pull him up. Clearly whatever he'd ingested was still going strong. 'Come on, let's go.' They began to make their way back to the street.

'John?' John looked up at Sherlock's intense, foggy blue eyes. 'Happy Christmas.'

John grinned. They really needed to keep some of that wine around.


End file.
